


not anymore

by cirque_de_reves (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Death, First Blade, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, MOC Dean, Mark of Cain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 09:00:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10850721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/cirque_de_reves
Summary: Dean finally goes full crazy - an effect of the mark of cain (set during season 9) - and ends up making some choices that the old him, the one in love with Cas, would be distinctly unappreciative of.





	not anymore

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: graphic violence and descriptions of sociopathy caused by the mark of Cain's murderous effects on Dean. pls only read if you know you won't be *triggered* and/or if you're sure you're ready for some ruinous heartbreak. although if you're someone, like me, who enjoys the analytical side of dean's evil days, please join me in an entirely scientific analysis of his brain during that awful time. I apologize in advance if this makes you bury your head in a pillow (I know I did) that just means it's making you think, which is what it's here for.  
> (also - just for the books - I'm sorry, I really am)

There is so much blood. It’s all around him, closing in on him, sweet and neon and prolific. Like poppies, oozing saturation, hissing at him like a teapot with its urgent, chafing voice. Even though the body is dead and the soul is gone the flesh still bleeds hot, pooling around his boots and tugging at his calves like it's inviting him to take a swim. He could do it. Dive in like an Olympic swan and catch the breeze on his way down, keeping his toes pointed and floating like a feather into the ocean of thick red. He could – a part of him wants to, a surprisingly easy-to-reach part, but it would swallow him. He knows this.

His first movement in minutes – it feels like he hasn’t even been breathing, but does he need to? He has other means of sustenance now – Dean flexes his forearm and with it, the Mark.

Its glow is beginning to fade, and he feels the euphoria slide away with it, and once again there is the distinct panic in which he fumbles to catch it but it ebbs away, and in his slippery hands he holds nothing but hunger.

It’s been ten minutes, and already he feels the need to kill. He doesn’t _want_ to be controlled by the urges, but that same part of him, the one that is so frighteningly close to the surface, likes giving up. It – and it’s a part of _Dean_ , and therefore by association _is_ Dean – _he_ – likes giving up, enjoys the newfound ability to sit back and let this other side of him run his control panel. Sometimes if he looks at the guy’s face for more than a half second, some buried voice will cry out for justice, but that voice ain’t the judge anymore – the Mark is, and when it brings the First blade down like a gavel the voice is silenced. And then it’s covered in blood, so much blood, until its shrieks are blanketed by melting crimson poppy blossoms.

He raises the blade, and catches himself admiring it, the way the blood on it runs down the shaft and eventually his wrist; the way it gleams, and how in its reflection he vibrates with power. The blood is power, and Dean is thirsty.

He turns around, and indistinct but lightly familiar voices dance in his eardrums. His chest swells. He pictures the words – words like _Dean this isn’t you_ and _Fight it, Dean!_ and _Please, Dean, I need you_ – being muffled by wet sputters as their owner’s heart comes up his throat. He glances down at his first victim once more and the rhythmic waves of its bodily fluids lapping at his feet, and just enough coherent thought is left in him to let him identify the long hair plastered against the high cheekbones, and the long body sprawled broken across the tile floor. Sam.

 _What have you done?_ The buried voice says, having clawed its way outward again.

 _You killed him_ it says.

_He has saved you countless times, and now he is dead, and his life-blood is crusted beneath your fingernails._

Dean shudders. He throws back his shoulders and laughs maniacally until he can’t hear the voice anymore, and he turns around again to see another figure lying helplessly in his field of vision, black hair standing up in every direction like it’s trying to run away from him, too, and blue eyes pleading with the serrated thing he still holds in the air like a flag, blue eyes that search Dean’s like they know him.

Not anymore.

Amidst the still-persisting sobs of his inferior, he feels sorry. He wants to apologize to this man; not the dead one, but the one that will be soon; and tell him that it’s not his fault. He hasn’t done anything to deserve this, but Dean’s bloodlust outweighs his empathy.

The man cries out again, and Dean remembers his name: Castiel. An angel of the lord, but there’s nothing this weapon won’t kill.

His voice hammers into his skull.

“Dean…” His eyes are acceptant now, grotesque, blue sky tainted with blood like red rain. “Remember I love you.”

Not anymore.

He brings the First Blade down and plunges it into the angel’s chest. More of the stuff comes spurting out, waterfalling from ragged veins and arteries, and the only voice left is the euphonious one that brings him joy with every kill.

He stands inanimate again, relishing in the séance of power across his eyelids and the dynamic omnipotence that flows from the Mark throughout his entire body, and his eyeballs tremble in their sockets. They are dilated with orgasmic furor again. His irises are fireworks of vermilion, he can feel it.

Then it’s over, and immediately the blinding need to kill is back. He stares down at victim no. 2, the way his arms span straight up from his torso like wings, and the way his wings are spiraling tendrils of ash on the floor like fingers reaching towards Dean’s soul.

The last words, meant to salvage, echo in Dean’s head like they were meant to murder. He clenches his jaw, so as to forget, and walks away.

Dean Winchester does not save, or remember, or love.

Not anymore.

 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading, small population of ao3 goers who chose to run the risk of actually consuming the content in this painful fic. ily guys.


End file.
